


Violent Delights

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!, AU, Additional Tags to Be Added, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Fake Marriage, Gratuitous Violence, If I only give hints and never tell, Implied/Referenced Torture, Is it a mysterious backstory, Kidnapping, Kisses, M/M, Murder, Say it with me now boys, Sharing a Bed, Violence, Wound Dressing, disposing of a body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29026065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: It's dangerous to have friends in a profession like this, but Enoch and Beast have never been much for tradition.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20





	1. Weak Men (Unbloodied Hands)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I can't even begin to describe how long I've been working on this fic. If no one else enjoys this trope filled sandwich I will.

Beast lay flat on his stomach in the abandoned apartment, the sniper rifle peeking out the window as he lined up Mr. Decker in his sights. 

He hates guns, so impersonal, no way to leave his calling card, but at least he doesn't have to drag the body through an urban area into the woods. Even thinking about lugging a body through the back allies of the thrumming nightlife makes his skin crawl, but he thinks he might take it over the gun. 

The contract had been very specific, though, and had offered double if he left the body in the apartment. 

Sometimes, simplicity was required over style.

He hums under his breath, a nursery rhyme chasing its way through his head, as he watches Mr. Decker move through the apartment across the street two floors below and one room to the right.

Such a shame the man wouldn't be able to hear the song. Beast hummed it just for him, after all. 

The sound of a safety being clicked off behind his head just a few inches away from his ear makes him freeze, shoulder’s hunching. 

He hadn't heard them enter the apartment. 

He resists the urge to turn around.

It's not as if he doesn't know who it is. There's only one man who’s successfully snuck upon him.

“Mister Barnes.” He grits out through his teeth, subtly adjusting his aim. “Can I help you?” 

There's a low chuckle behind him. 

“Why so hostile, pumpkin? I thought you’d be pleased to see me after the Orient.”

“I am busy, Mr. Barnes.”

“That’s why I’m here, actually.” The voice is devoid of mirth now, all teasing swept away and replaced with cool professionalism. 

Beast sighs, exasperated, as Mr. Decker walks out of view of the window and turns to look pointedly over his shoulder at the looming figure of Mr. Barnes, gun in hand.

He catches those eyes in his own, his face twisted into a sneer. Barnes grins back at him, fond and gentle.

“Surely you are not mad that I'm intruding on a contract. Just claim it as your own.” 

“Even if you were, dear, our styles are too different for me to claim it as one of mine.”

Beast scoffs at that, turning back to the window.

“You’re too personal.”

“You’re too impersonal. Especially when you’re forced to use a gun, Cricket.”

Beast decides to ignore that comment.

“Surely you weren't hired to protect him. He won't win the election. It seems a great waste of resources to hire me at all.” 

“I always knew you had no head for politics, sugar. You weren't hired to prevent him from winning. You were hired to start backlash at his murder and throw suspicion on Moonhill.”

Beast chooses to remain silent, growling as the movement in his lens reflects Mr. Decker’s cat and not the man himself.

“Come now, my dear sapling, are you not going to ask who hired me?” 

“Clearly, the Duchess did if it's about politics.” 

“I never said I was protecting him. I merely told you why I  _ might  _ be hired to protect him. And be polite, dear, she’s a Queen now.”

“She's a Duchess with connections; murdering and buying her way to the throne doesn't make her queen.” 

“And what does it make her?”

“A chess player.”

“A chess player, hm? What does that make me, sugar? A pawn?”

“No. You’re a chess player too, even if poker is your forte.”

“And we’re playing a little game of chess, the three of us, dear?”

“ _ You two _ certainly are. I’m playing checkers.”

He can hear the wry smile behind him. 

“We’re playing chess against a man playing checkers?”

“Yes.” 

Mr. Decker finally reappears in the golden sliver of his kitchen window, and his fingers tighten on the trigger.

“Beast.” Barnes’ voice is firm and cold now. “Hands off the gun, stand up.”

He grits his teeth, sighs, removes his hands from the gun, and stands up. 

He stares out the half-closed balcony window, out into a city bathed in darkness, gold and silver dancing in its windows, the silhouetted monoliths of steel and concrete rising up into an endless sky. He traces where the spiderwebbing crack in the window intertwines with the cold night with his eyes. He counts the few pinpricks of light where stars pierce the darkness and where the hazy glow of the city dulls them.

The sounds of city life are distant and soft, edges muddled by distance, and yet it still manages to drown out his humming.

“Turn around.”

He takes a breath through his teeth, acutely aware of how cold he is. 

He stares out the window, into the city, cold air biting his fingers and seeping in through his clothes and burrowing in his bones.

“Beast.” Barnes prompts icily, his patience thin in his voice.

With his boot, he kicks the rifle into the air, flipping it before him, catching it he whirls, bracing it against his shoulder and pressing it into Mr. Barnes’ chest.

He stares into the barrel of the gun aimed directly between his eyes. 

He feels his mouth twist into a cruel grin, unbidden.

“You’re not wearing gloves, Mr. Barnes.” He purrs, words dripping with smugness.

Beast’s gaze flick from Barnes’ hands to his eyes, cold as steel. 

Beast probably couldn't beat Barnes in a straight fight, and even if he had a knife or gun, it was doubtful he would be able to overcome the man before he himself was fatally wounded.

Barnes was a big man, a strong man, and one with years in this profession under his belt. And even though Beast had the edge of experience, nearly half a decade more of it, he was a small man in stature, and despite his own wiry strength, he could not hope to rival Barnes, who dwarfed him by over two feet and who’s broad shoulders made his seem slight and narrow.

The man’s sheer tenacity was something to behold.

But he wasn't wearing his gloves, and Barnes always wore his gloves when he had a job to complete. He didn't have the advantages of having one’s fingerprints burned off. 

Really there was barely any indication of regret that flickered across his face when he realized his bluff had been called. 

He would have made an excellent poker player, or maybe a politician.

In that moment, that flicker, Beast knocks Barnes in the arm with his rifle while swiping one foot forward to knee the man in the shin. 

He jars Barnes’ wrist with his shoulder, sending the gun skittering across the floor.

It goes off in a corner, firing a blank.

Barnes wasn't even  _ trying _ tonight.

He leers, with the upper hand at the man only to have his rifle wrestled from his grip before he can grasp for the trigger. He couldn’t have brought himself to pull it, so it’s just as well, but it's the principle of the thing. 

He launches himself at Barnes, grabbing for the rifle and sending it flying. It gets flung in his grappling. 

He winces at the sound of his delicate gun hitting the hard flooring.

Barnes dislodges his grip and sends Beast crashing to the ground, he’s on his feet in an instant, but the impact sings.

He’s getting too old for this.

“Beast, please-” But Beast is already throwing his full weight upon the man, knocking him off balance and sending them both to the floor in a cacophony of curses. 

He digs his fingers into Barnes’ neck and gets elbowed hard in the stomach for his troubles. He closes his grip, cutting off the man’s airflow. His shoulder aches its protest, and he winces.

Barnes grabs his wrist with one hand, prying it off his neck, trying to sit up and flip Beast under him. 

Beast growls at him, teeth snapping.

He wrenches his wrist out of Barnes’ grasp and sends a scoring mark of scratches down the man’s arm.

He throws his weight, knocking them both off balance once more and sending them crashing into the door frame, which gives a groan at the impact. 

Barnes grunts as Beast twists to kick him in the stomach.

With a sudden display of strength, Barnes catches his hand in a vice-like grip, his other going to Beast’s collar. He hoists him up, standing, holding Beast up by the collar of his shirt.

Beast’s feet don't touch the ground. They stir the empty air beneath him.

Barnes’ chest heaves for air, sweat glimmering on his brow, it makes Beast feel better for panting, seeing that he has brought Barnes to a similar state.

His free hand flutters into his coat, and he sees the panic dawn in Barnes’ eyes as the man follows it with his eyes, unable to release his grip without dropping Beast or giving him another free hand to work with.

The blade is at Barnes’ throat before the man can do a thing. 

The fear that briefly lanced across his face fades to a grin of mirth, lazy and assured. 

“Careful, sugar, I didn't come alone.”

Beast’s eyes narrow.

His eyes flick about the room like startled birds before settling back on Barnes, grinning like the cat that got the canary. 

“Who did you bring?” He demands. 

“Clara.” Barnes coos, brows creeping upward, challenging Beast.

Beast goes stiff in Barnes’ grip.

Barnes’ grin grows ever wider.

“I reckon she’s had her gun trained on your head since you stood up.”

Beast’s eyes slide to the balcony window.

They slide back to Barnes.

“Let me go,” He rasps. “And I won't turn up again in your part of the world.”

Barnes’ brow cocks up.

“What will you do, Beast? You can't quit the work.” 

“No.” He hissed venomously. “ _ You _ can't quit the work. I can do whatever I damn well please.”

The grip on his collar tightens. 

“Give me a straight answer, darlin’, what will you do?” 

Beast sneers, and in the silence, he studies Barnes’ eyes, hard and unyielding. At last, he surrenders his answer.

“Disappear, I’ll go back to the woods.” 

Barnes’ brows canter up, not warm and gentle, something almost mocking.

It’s not a good look on the man.

“You want me to let you go on the promise you’ll go back to being a ghost story. I didn't peg you for being one afraid of death.”

“No, not that.” 

“Use your words, sugar. What are you afraid of if not death?”

Beast shoots him a glare, and when he speaks, venom drips from his tongue.

“You know exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“I don't know why you want to rot in those woods so badly, pumpkin.” Despite the affectionate nickname, Barnes’ voice is cold.

“I’ve killed people, Barnes, people who will never be found. People who were and no longer are. I never was, to begin with.” He takes a moment to take in Barnes’ warm, imploring eyes. “I’ve taken great pains to ensure I will never be remembered. In the eyes of this world, I never existed. I will go out of it as I came into it without anyone noticing. I won’t put my nephews through such a thing.”

Barnes frowns at him.

“Your nephews don’t even know you.” He accuses. 

“No,” Beast agrees. “But better to never know than find out what I did in life.” 

Barnes scrutinizes him for a moment.

“I’ll make you a deal, dearheart, I’ll let you go on the promise you don’t kill this one.”

Beast’s eyes narrow at him. 

“What’s the catch, Barnes?” 

“You don't go crawling back to those woods.” He scowls and cuts Beast off before he can speak. “If you disappear in the forest, I’ll drag you kicking and screaming out of the woods. I swear to you I’ll raise hell. If you die out in the field, I’ll bury you in a potter’s grave in the woods myself, but don't you  _ dare _ disappear on me again.”

Beast feels his mouth twist into a cruel grin.

“Did you miss me after Geneva? I really thought you would have expected it.” He taunts.

Rage glowed in Barnes’ eyes. 

His fingers tighten at Beast’s collar.

“I woke up alone, Beast.” He growls. “You could have left a note that you were skipping town instead of leaving me wondering if you got caught.”

Perhaps it had been a bit cruel to leave in the middle of the night without leaving Barnes a note. 

The man  _ had _ been so distraught earlier that day when Beast had taken a bullet for him.

“I sent you a letter.” He defends himself.

“No!” Barnes thunders. “You sent Clara a letter.” 

Beast scowls at that. 

“You don't have a publicly available address, Barnes. I knew if I sent it to her, it would get to you.” 

Barnes' face softens, if only slightly. 

“Clara was on sabbatical.”

Beast frowns at that.

He hadn't known that.

Barnes sighs and releases his grip on Beast’s collar, taking a deep breath and rubbing his eyes with his hands. 

Beast lands easily on his feet, eyes wary.

“Go, don't you go disappearing in your damn woods,” Barnes mutters. 

“Oh, and, Beast?” He adds without removing his hand from his eyes. “If I ever go to bed and expect you to be there when I wake, you  _ better _ be there when I wake up.”

He glances up into the empty apartment. 

He casts a glance to his handgun and notes dryly that Beast didn't forget to grab his rifle before disappearing like a shade into the night.

He crouches down to pick up his gun and hears light footsteps behind him. 

“So you used me to bluff, hmm?” She asks, and he chuckles.

“Lost him already?” He counters, and Clara laughs, light and air behind him. 

“I didn't even make it down to the street before he realized he was being followed.”

“What did he do?” 

“I believe he jumped out the window.” She goes silent for a moment. She considers his grim expression. “He might have gone down the laundry chute now that I think of it. Shall I send Mr. Bitters down to check the laundry?” She teases, her face serene but eyes sparkling with mischief.

Enoch chuckled. 

“Only for him to give us the slip a few seconds later? It's simply not worth the trouble, Clara.” 

“And yet you keep chasing after him.” She says as she slips a hand into the crook of his elbow, gently leading him out of the abandoned apartment and into the stairwell. 

He sighs bitterly.

“Yes.” He mutters, at last, his voice soft with defeat. “I do.”

She pats his shoulder gently as they descend from one flight of steps to the next. 

“It's alright, dear. The heart doesn't care for trouble, only for love.” 

“Love doesn't survive in this profession.” He says, but he knows it has a canned quality to it, something oft-repeated but not obeyed, not heard nor heeded.

“No,” She says firmly. “It doesn’t. And yet here you are, two decades deep and with the shovel still in your hand.”

“I am a weak man, Clara.”

She clucks but does not contradict him.

Sitting just a floor above them, another weak man puts his face in his hands and sighs, a sniper rifle leaning against the wall beside him.


	2. Bloody Hands (Honeyed Words)

Beast stirs at the slightest of noises. 

He has never slept well, when he does sleep at all, a chronic problem that had only worsened with his career choice. Even the quiet settling and creaking sounds of an old house were sure to rouse him.

Abandoned manors at the edges of towns were creaky. It was practically a requirement to be an abandoned manor.

He had chosen the building for precisely that reason. 

So he would hear if anyone broke in.

The footsteps are light, probably just into the foyer, but they rouse him nonetheless.

Covertly, Beast rolls off the bed, landing in a crouch silently. He hadn't bothered with getting under the covers. Too much of a risk that could slow him down and steal precious seconds.

He listens carefully, slipping his knife into his hand.

Part of him wonders if he should see to grabbing his gun, but another more disdainful part has him out in the hall without even turning towards his gun case. 

He trods careful and light, avoiding the places where the floors creaked, the doors groaned, and the glass rattled. He circles the presence in the house, stealing glances and moving through shadows. It's a man, one trying very hard to be covert, moving through the house in utter darkness, occasionally stumbling over his own feet. 

He’s a young man, too old to be here on a dare and not reeking of alcohol or drugs.

He’s looking for something. 

Perhaps someone.

Beast will have to kill him. 

When the man finally gives up stumbling through the dark and reaches for the light switch in the kitchen, Beast is standing only a few feet behind him.

He lets the man stand in the light, glancing about the kitchen as his wits returned to him for a few moments before he speaks up.

“What are you doing in my house?” 

Beast doesn't give him room to yell, charging forward and crashing into the man.

The struggle that follows is truly messy. 

The young man has some strength in him, the wiry kind that became dangerous when animalistic fear of death set in. He was young and scared of death, inexperienced but desperate. 

Really he was just overcomplicating things.

His blade dances in pretty arcs, it’s not clean, but if he wanted a clean kill, he would have slit the man’s throat in the dark ten minutes ago.

Wet and warm, blood stains his hands and taints his lips in copper.

When they slam into the wall, Beast takes the brunt of it and groans, shoulder aching. Abruptly he goes rigid in the young man’s grasp, the tapping of footsteps approaching reaching his ears, just faintly detectable under the panting of the young man struggling against him.

He knocks the man along the back of the head hard, and the man groans, going limp.

His blade digs against flesh, which parts without protest beneath it.

Suddenly a woman’s voice rings out. 

“Oh! Dear! Beast- is that you?”

Beast pauses, then slowly stands, gripping the still struggling young man by the collar, blade moved to rest, draped in glimmering red, against the man’s neck. The man sobs and thrashes weakly.

He gives the boy a rough shake. 

“Calm down.” He growls. 

The young man whimpers but falls still.

He turns and fixes his gaze on the woman, ready to assess this new threat, and his brows slant up.

“Clara?” He glances down at the quivering young man in his grip, nose bleeding and with a cut above his eye. His eyes flick from the boy to Clara a few times as he made the mental connection. “Is this man in Enoch’s employ?” 

Clara glances at the young man.

“Oh, yes, poor dear,” She takes a few steps forward to better inspect the damage. “My, you did quite a number on him.”

Beast drops the boy who crumples into a shuddering heap on the floor, a pitiful noise escaping his lips.

“He doesn't fight like one of you,” Beast says, at last, wiping his knife off on the kitchen towel and tucking it into his pocket.

“He’s new,” Clara says simply. 

There’s a beat of silence as the man shakily tries to get to his feet.

“Clara?” A voice calls from the door of the house. “I'm coming in.” Beast tenses. 

Beast hadn't expected Barnes. 

He looks at Clara, sure that his panic is written in his eyes. If she notices, she gives no indication. 

“Yes, dear, we’re in the kitchen,” Clara calls over her shoulder, hands folded over her apron.

When Enoch finally does walk into the room, he gawks for a moment at the inhabitants, Clara and Beast standing to one side, Beast’s shirt horribly bloodied, and the young man still crouching on the floor, whimpering. 

“Beast? What are you doing here-” His eyes seem to fall on Beast’s shirt. “Is that yours?”

Clara points wordlessly to the young man on the floor. 

Enoch’s gaze darts between the man and Beast, realization dawning in his eyes.

Beast’s eyes narrow, and he glares at the lumpy shape swaddled in a tarp draped over Barnes’ shoulder. 

“Oh. You’ve brought me a body. How delightful.” He mutters dryly.

Enoch shifts on his feet, his grin awkward and sheepish. 

“You can set that down on the kitchen table.” Beast gestures to the table. 

Barnes obediently sets down the body and then moves to crouch before the young man on the ground. 

The young man makes a pained gasp.

Beast observes the scene for a moment.

“I’ll go fetch my medical bag,” And with that, he turns abruptly on his heel and exits the room.

When he returns, Clara and Enoch have set the young man upon one of the chairs, holding a handkerchief to his nose to stop his nosebleed. 

Beast brushes them away with a wave of his hand and gives a cursory inspection of the young man. 

All in all, the damage wasn't too bad. It certainly wasn't the worst Beast had inflicted in his day. He looks the young boy up and down with a critical eye. 

He’s got two bruises already blooming around his eyes and certainly wouldn't be getting any dates with his face scratched up and bruised like that anytime soon. It doesn't look like Beast has broken his nose, though, at the very least. A few superficial cuts along his arms, though he would likely need stitches for a few of him. He’s probably severely bruised and scraped under his shirt, but Beast will make him divest those later, so he can tend to that after he deals with the worst of it. The worst of it is, in fact, the man’s right leg, which had caught a scathing blow from Beast’s knife. 

Wordlessly he kneels before the man, taking his blood-soaked pant leg in hand. 

He won't be able to work around it.

He takes his knife and cuts his pants just below the man’s hip in a few clean movements to bare his leg. 

“Hey!” The man protests. “Those are my good pants!” 

Beast glares up at him. 

“Your good pants are drenched in your own blood, so forgive me if I don't feel too guilty for cutting them.” He snarls back. 

The young man grumbles for a moment but does not halt any of Beast’s further treatments. With the tatters of the man’s pants, he applies pressure until the bleeding has slowed to a crawl. 

“Miss Clara, would you do me the favor of fetching a water bottle from the counter?” He asks distractedly.

“Of course, dear,” She replies, and soon he finds the bottle in his hand. 

The man whimpers as he cleans the wound but ultimately holds his tongue. Beast has to give him credit for that. He certainly seems to deal with pain like Enoch’s other folk. With the excess blood out of the way, Beast can properly inspect the damage. 

“I believe I can fix you up fine enough to walk, but I’m going to recommend going to a hospital after this.”

The man nods, and Beast eyes him carefully. 

“The nearest hospital is two towns over. Do you think you’ll be able to walk, or will you need to be carried?”

“We drove, dearie,” Clara murmurs. 

“I’m not sure he’ll be able to stay focused on the road, driving,” Beast mutters.

“Oh, that’s no trouble, I’ll take him, dear.”

Beast nods at that and turns to his bag.

He rummages in his bag and pulls out a roll of medical tape. Slowly and methodically, he tapes the wound shut before unraveling a length of gauze to wrap around the wound.

He stands and inspects his work. 

He eyes the young man carefully. 

“The shirt’s got to go.”

“What?” The man asks. 

“Take the shirt off, or I’ll cut it off.” Beast’s hand is on his knife in less than a second. That sets the man in motion, and he quickly begins unbuttoning the first few buttons, wincing in pain as he pulls on his injuries. 

Beast crosses his arms and waits. 

The man stands awkwardly. 

He glances between his buttons and Beast uncertainly.

Beast cocks a brow. 

“Well?” He asks impatiently. 

“I-” The man’s cheeks heat. 

“Please forget your modesty for a moment,” Beast says sharply. 

The man swallows thickly and continues to unbutton his shirt.

“Barnes, get your filthy hands out of my medical bag.” Beast snarls without ever turning to face the man. 

Barnes sighs. 

“You know, after all these years, I think I’ve earned the right to have you call me by my name, sugar.” There's an edge of frustration in Barnes’ voice though the man is clearly endeavoring to keep his voice light.

Beast turns to level an icy gaze on Barnes.

The man smiles innocently enough. 

All teeth.

“I will call you by your name when you stop using those inane nicknames for me and call me by my name.” Beast snaps coldly.

Barnes blinks at that for a moment, but the mild surprise on his features quickly melts. His mouth pulls wide into a crooked and devilish grin. His brows creep upward, and sinister, positively shameless mischief glimmers in his eyes. 

Barnes leans forward, shoulders hiked in anticipation, his face the picture of a sinful promise. 

“Is that so, Beast?” He purrs, voice low and rough in a way that goes straight to Beast’s hips. Oh, and the way that he says Beast’s name as if he’s relishing the flavor of the word on his tongue, caressing the word in his mouth.

Beast feels himself go red and abruptly turns to the young man, now shirtless, and begins tending his wounds. 

“I changed my mind. You are never to call me by my name ever again. I forbid it.”

Enoch’s laughter booms through the old house, and Beast feels his face heat just that little bit more.

* * *

An hour and a half later, when Clara is driving the young man, who has been formally introduced to Beast as Jonny Peterson, Mr. Anderson Peterson's biological son, who was the husband of Mr. Nickolas Peterson, who Beast had met a decade or so ago.

Beast and Barnes, for their parts, were sitting on opposite sides of the table, the body between them.

“So,” Beast purrs over the rim of his teacup. “You brought me a body?” 

Enoch chuckles lightly. 

“It wasn't my intention to bring it to you. I wasn't even looking for you, honest, sugar.” Beast takes a sip of his tea at that, humming. “That is, of course, not to say I am not delighted to see you.” 

“If you weren’t looking for me, why did you turn up in my neck of the woods.” 

Enoch leers at him. 

“Any neck of the woods you’re in is my neck of the woods, darlin’,” 

Beast cocks his brows upward at that. 

“Mhm,” He hums.

Barnes’ harsh grin softens, and he relents with the truth.

“We were hoping to show Peterson the ropes for dealing with a body.” 

“And you intended it to dispose of it in the abandoned manner at the edge of town, half-eaten in the wood and succumbing to rot?” 

“What can I say?” Barnes croons, batting his eyelashes in a way that was wholly unflattering. “It reminded me of you.”

“Flirt,” Beast says dryly as he takes a sip.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment before Beast towards the body. 

“So,” He drawls, lacing his hands together. “What do you suggest we do with this.” 

Barnes considers the body for a moment then gestures vaguely. 

“Perhaps somewhere in the woods?”

“Hm,” Beast hums and stands, gingerly setting down his teacup. “Sounds wonderful. Let's go.”

Barnes chuckles and downs the last of his tea, standing and picking up the body easily. He shifts it onto his shoulder, and Beast takes a moment to grab a canteen of gasoline and leads him out of the manor and into the woods. 

They walk in step for a long while, cold air whipping about them and tugging around their shoulders. The dry leaves make no noise under Beast’s careful steps as he murmurs soft instructions to Barnes, directing him towards some unknown spot. 

Barnes eventually speaks up. 

“I can’t help but be reminded of the old days.” Humor tinges his voice. “You and I finding a place to hide a body in the woods. Not precisely a novel experience.”

Beast laughs. 

“Don’t remind me, Barnes. We used to make such a mess. It was a wonder we were never caught.” 

“I was, remember,” There's a giddy grin on Barnes’ face now. “You broke me out of jail.” 

“Oh, yes, that was something I did, wasn't it.” 

“It was spectacular, sugar.”

“You flatter me, Barnes.”

Eventually, they come upon a small clearing, and Barnes drops the body. 

“I imagine you’ve already dealt with his fingerprints and teeth?” 

“Of course, pumpkin, I’m no amateur.” 

“I would expect no less.” Beast murmurs. “Are you sending a message with this body or just disposing of it?” 

“Hm? No, no, simply disposing of it. They didn’t pay me nearly enough to do something special.”

“Cheap?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe. I’m a little surprised Clara even let me take it. No family or roommates, though, which makes it easy. I thought it would be an excellent teaching moment for Mr. Peterson.”

“It’s a teaching moment, alright.” Beast drawls. “A teaching moment to always be armed.” 

“Something like that,” Enoch laughs and takes the gasoline from Beast’s hand, dousing the body in quick, practiced movements. 

Beast pats down his pockets and frowns. 

“What’s wrong, dearheart?” 

“I believe in my scuffle with Mr. Peterson, I lost my matchbook.” 

Enoch wordlessly reaches into his vest pocket and hands Beast a box of matches. 

Beast cocks a brow. 

“Are you smoking again?” 

Barnes chuckles. 

“Clara would kill me.” Beast’s eyes narrow because that’s not an answer. Barnes takes one look at Beast, with eyes suspicious and lips pressed into a thin line, and sighs. “No, I haven't touched a pack in the last year and a half, I promise, sugar.” 

Beast considers that for a moment as he pulls a match out. 

“You were going to burn down the manor.” He says, at last, twirling the match between his fingers, deftly. 

“I was certainly considering it,” Barnes replies evenly. 

“I shouldn’t have wasted my gasoline if you brought your own,” 

“Oh, no, I was rather hoping the manor would go up like a tinder box all on its own,” 

“Then you’re rather lucky I was there,” 

“Damp?” 

“Terribly so.”

Barnes’ lips flatten into a frown at that, as if he would like to make an objection to what Beast is not certain, but Barnes makes no further comment.

Beast strikes the match. 

He drops it. 

It falls, a shooting star plunging into darkness, swallowed up by a sea of kerosene. 

They run. 

The body goes up in a fireball as they watch from afar. It casts their shadows into long monstrous figures, dancing and flickering wildly behind them.

The warm light falls across them, draped like a blanket. It softens their edges, smoothing away blood and age in a fluttering glow.

“More tea?” Beast asks, fire dancing hot in the reflection of his glasses. 

“But of course,” Barnes replies, a smile on his lips, orange mingling with red and twining with yellow in his eyes. 

They make their way back to the old house arm in arm, firelight dancing behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every week I play a little game called how long do I have until wednesday, and this week I lost, so this is speedily edited. Though all should be fine because this is one of the chapters that underwent most of its editing several months ago.


	3. Honeyed Vows (Till Death Do We Part)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minorly spicy scene after the second break, you can skip to the last sentence if you'd like!

He receives the contract in the mail.

It’s an interesting contract, certainly. He can’t say he approves of the motives of the person who contacted him, but that’s hardly his business so long as he is properly paid. The venue will offer quite the challenge, but he’s intrigued. 

He almost throws it out on principle, however, when he notes the finer print. 

It’s very typical for the most part, asking that he stay in town before the target arrives and remain for a few days, building up an alibi rather than appearing and disappearing. It’s certainly not uncommon, though he does charge more for it.

No, what nearly has him dropping the whole thing in the garbage is the note that he will be paying a separate professional to ensure that they would have a proper alibi. 

The client will make all the arrangements, will pay for five days at the resort, all under the condition that the target is killed and that Beast and the other contractor hired act as a honeymooning couple. 

He scoffs and would normally simply dispose of the contract without further entertaining it. 

And yet, despite himself, he asks as to the identity of the other contractor hired, making a promise to himself that he’ll not pretend to be married to a woman, _again_. His answer comes in the form of a curt reply that the other contractor went by the name Barnes in most circles. And well, if Enoch had agreed to take such a contract, how could Beast resist that. 

They meet at the airport. Barnes is dressed in a button-down and slacks, far more casually than the last time they met. Beast finds the man standing at the gate waiting for him, standing out from the crowd. 

He smiles that infuriating smile as soon as he sees Beast, striding over, luggage carried as if it weighed nothing in one hand. He takes one of Beast’s hands in his own smoothly, pressing a kiss to the back of it. 

Something cool and metal slides onto Beast’s finger. 

His eyes narrow, and he fights the urge to yank his hand away from Barnes. 

The ring is a pretty thing, simple and silver, idly he wonders how much it must have cost. It certainly didn’t feel cheap. 

“Hello, husband mine,” Barnes purrs low and private, grin already insufferably smug. Heat flushes Beast’s cheeks as a hand falls on his shoulder, guiding him over to a seat gently. 

“Hello, Barnes,” He grits out between his teeth, and Barnes chuckles, fondness radiating from him. 

“I thought you were an actor, turtle dove,” He murmurs, so close Beast can feel his body heat.

Beast forces himself to stop brushing his thumb along the ring. 

“I am,” He growls out. “This is not the role I typically play,” A hand covers his own, a matching wedding band gleaming on Barnes’ finger. Beast swallows thickly at the sight of it.

Barnes leans against him, radiating warmth, thoroughly enjoying the task of dismantling Beast’s personal space. He forces himself not to flinch away and lean into the touch instead. If Barnes is at all surprised by this, it does not show in the lines of his grin. 

“And I have never played the role of doting husband attempting to soothe my nervous newly wedded spouse, and yet here we are.” Barnes teases. “I think I’m doing a stupendous job.”

Beast wants to make a scathing retort, but as soon as he opens his mouth, the loudspeaker crackles on demanding first-class passengers begin boarding. Barnes stands, picking up his own carry on luggage with one hand and slinging Beast’s duffle bag over his shoulder. 

“Shall we?” 

Beast blinks blankly, Barnes’ smile is so bright and genuine it’s positively blinding. 

“I wasn’t aware we had first-class seats.” He says at last when he finds his tongue. 

Barnes laughs, shoulders bouncing with mirth. There's a fond twinkle in his eye when he bumps Beast with his hip, shepherding him towards the gangway gently. Beast stumbles dumbly, allowing himself to be led as he clutches his ticket. 

“Only the best for my husband,” Barnes purrs like an old tomcat. “Honestly, darling, did you even look at your boarding pass?” 

“Somehow,” Beast drawls dryly. “The thought didn’t occur to me.” 

Barnes hums coyly as Beast hands the flight attendant, a young woman who keeps glancing nervously at Barnes. She takes Beast’s boarding pass in shaky hands and has to scan it twice before the machine finally lights up green. 

Barnes hums, shifting Beast’s duffle onto his shoulder to hand the woman his boarding pass, and then they’re off down the gangway to the plane. 

Barnes falls quickly in step with him, humming a jaunty little tune to the pace of his steps. He’s so close that Beast can feel the warmth radiating from him. He finds himself running his fingers along the band of metal, now claiming his ring finger. 

He swallows thickly, moving without seeing, nervousness prickling in his shoulders. 

He doesn't know how he’s going to endure two weeks; he’s already been flustered twice in less than 20 minutes. 

He sinks into his seat tensely, watching as Barnes lingers in the aisle, clucking and fussing over their luggage. He watches, shoulders hiked as Barnes stores his luggage overhead and then politely turns to Beast. 

“Is there something you’ll need in flight in your bag?” He asks pleasantly.

Beast shakes his head. 

“Nothing of the sort.” Barnes hums at that and stows Beast’s duffle bag with his suitcase before slipping into the seat beside him. Beast’s fingers drum nervously against the armrest, he glances impatiently out the window into the small slice of the world displayed through it. 

Lights flash red and yellow through the darkness, and his fingers tap tap tap. 

He grits his teeth and forces himself to breathe. 

A hand encompasses his own, forcing his fingers still. Barnes is warm, hot almost, like a brand searing against his frigid flesh. 

“Are you afraid of planes, sugar?” Barnes' voice is earnest and sincere, and Beast could laugh. Planes were the least of his worries for the next five days. He cocks a brow at Barnes dubiously and is met with a soft chuckle that makes him heat from his hairline to his collar. “Would you like to discuss what’s worrying you?”

“I am not worried,” He says sharply, and Barnes hums and fixes him with a look that says Barnes most certainly doesn't believe him but is politely refusing to press for Beast’s sake rather than his own.

Barnes slips his hand out of Beast’s, pulling a slim book of crosswords out of his pocket and uncapping his pen with his teeth. 

Barnes has always been inclined to humming when he’s otherwise occupied, and now is no exception, as he makes short strokes along the side of the page trying to work out how to spell nauseous. The tune he hums is slow and meandering, and Beast finds himself plucking out the harmony after a moment to hum along. 

The flight director has begun their safety instructions by the time Barnes has crossed out various misspellings of nauseous 4 times. 

“E-O-U-S,” Beast says at last, startling Barnes, who makes a long pen mark across his page as his hand jerks in surprise. The man turns and blinks at him. “It doesn’t matter, though. Nauseous has eight letters, not seven.” 

Barnes glances between him and the page as he taps out the boxes, counting under his breath. Barnes frowns down at the book. 

“It’s seasick.” Beast offers at last after a moment of Barnes’ silent contemplation. 

“Thank you, love,” Barnes purrs, and Beast's blood runs hot at the pet name. “Would you like to help me with the next?” 

“No. I simply refuse to watch you butcher the spelling of simple words.” Beast bristles and turns to look pointedly out the window, through which a view of the tarmac rolling by like an endless sea greets him. 

Despite his refusal, Barnes subtly shifts so that the crossword book is closer between them and easier to read. 

Beast’s ears have popped twice as the altitude continued to rise before he begins to sneak looks at the crossword book again. 

Barnes has made relatively good progress considering he only started this particular puzzle when they boarded the plane; however, there are several clues that he’s skipped over in favor of jumping around and filling out the ones he does know. 

“Twelve down is docile.” Beast finds himself saying as the ding rings through the cabin, indicating they have reached cruising altitude. 

Barnes hums pleasantly and neatly fills twelve down before moving to fill twelve across with Dubai. 

Beast finds himself leaning forward, practically resting against Barnes’ shoulder, making snappish comments about Barnes’ terrible spelling and pointing out words when he gets tired of watching Barnes struggle with them. He grits his jaw as his ears pop again, fingers drumming against his leg.

The creaking of wheels draws his gaze from the crossword puzzle, now nearly complete. Beast glances up at the drinks cart and the young man pushing it.

Barnes smiles sunnily at the flight attendant, capping his pen. 

“Could I get you something to drink?” The flight attendant asks them, smiling. 

“Do you serve whiskey?” Barnes’ voice dips melodically. 

“We do, we have Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker red label,” 

“Johnny Walker, please,” The flight attendant nods and turns to Beast. 

“And you, sir?” 

“Do you have a red wine?” 

The flight attendant shakes his head as he speaks. 

“Unfortunately, we do not. Could I interest you in one of our whites?” 

“Then I shall have a Johnny Walker as well,” The flight attendant nods and turns to pour them their drinks. 

As the flight attendant works, he makes polite conversation. 

“So what brings you on this flight?” He says as he fumbles with the plastic cups, attempting to make noise in the silence. 

Barnes takes one of Beast’s hands in his own, clasping it against the warmth of his grip. Beast’s ring _burns_ on his finger. 

“Yes, we’re on our way to our honeymoon.” 

The flight attendant grins broadly.

“Oh! Congratulations!”

Barnes makes polite conversation until the young man has managed to pour their drinks, which Barnes passes to Beast to hold as he takes charge and flips down their trays. 

The flimsy paper cups are cold compared to Barnes’ searing hands. 

“Are you going to do that every time?” Beast asks when Barnes takes his drink back, sipping his whiskey as he glances over the crossword book. 

“Do what, dear?” Barnes hums. 

“Mention it's our honeymoon.” 

Barnes turns to shoot him a broad grin. 

“I intend to do so every chance I get.” And Beast doesn't put it past him.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, before he leans back, takes a swig of his whiskey, and leans over to peer at the crossword book once more.

* * *

When they exit the plane and go to fetch their luggage, a man is waiting with a hand-written sign declaring “Mr. and Mr. Edel.”

“Not subtle at all, are you, Barnes?” He drawls under his breath as they are ushered into a car to ferry them to the resort. 

“I hoped you wouldn’t mind me borrowing your last name.” Barnes whispers, his fingers twined in Beast's own.

Beast snorts. 

“Keep it if you like.” 

Barnes hums at his side. 

“I do believe I will.” Barnes' voice is teasing, but Beast feels his face warm in response. 

The hotel is all grandeur, a gold dappled, a pink-white nightmare of clashing styles and colors, all circling around its broad open windows, all facing towards the picturesque beaches and palm trees. 

Barnes checks them in, their luggage was quickly taken from them to be hurried up to their room. Beast has to fight back the urge to roll his eyes as Barnes natters on, gladly telling the receptionist that they’re married, to which the young woman congratulates them and asks if they would be interested in a couple’s massage. 

Barnes’ lips twitch into a sly grin, brows tilting up as an affirmation begins to take shape on his lips, and Beast quickly interrupts him to assure her that they would most certainly not be interested. 

As they walk towards the elevator, Beast can feel the smirk on Barnes’ face without looking. The man hums lightly, and there's a teasing glint in his eyes. Beast’s shoulders hunch, creeping up towards his ears as he waits for the punchline. 

A hand falls on his shoulder, and he jumps. 

“You’re so tense, sugar, a massage might do you good.”

“As if you would not be upset, you would not be the one putting your hands on me.” He retorts and is only met by Barnes’ smile tugging broader.

“I suppose I’ll just give you one myself then.” He says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Absolutely not,” Beast says, voice a touch closer to strangled than he’d like to admit. Barnes’ laughter rings through his skull as the door dings, and they step out into the hall. 

Beast fumbles with the door key and shoves his way into the room, Barnes trailing behind him.

Beast takes one glance around the room with its wide windows and stunning view of the beach from the balcony. Delicate lacy curtains and tasteful decor, and then his eye falls on the plush bed in the center of the room.

“There’s only one bed.” He says matter of factly. The silence that hangs in the air after that admission is poignant, a breath held. “We will have to share.” He concludes at last.

“Hm?” Barnes peers around him, still far closer than was warranted, voice lilting into a teasing voice. “I hope there’s one shower.” He remarks. 

For that, Beast knocks him along the shoulder but has to veil his smile behind his hand before excusing himself to use the restroom.

When he exits, nose wrinkled from the smell of lavender now clinging to his hands as a result of an overly scented bar of soap, he moves to start unpacking his luggage. 

“You’ll be delighted to learn there are no showers, only a tub.” He says over his shoulder to Barnes, who makes a small, thoughtful sound at that. Beast’s brows creep towards his hairline at the lack of a bawdy comment. That wasn’t like Barnes at all. Beast turns to find the man standing over a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of champagne, a flimsy piece of paper between his fingers. 

Barnes catches his gaze and reads aloud. 

“Some complimentary refreshments for your honeymoon, courtesy of,” Barnes brows cock up as he reads the name. “Someone using the name. G. Mackle,” He glances back up at Beast. “Our client, if I had to guess.” 

Beast strides forward and lifts the bottle by the neck to inspect the label. 

“They spared no expense.” He notes dryly, and Barnes lets out a soft laugh. 

“Well, we can’t let good alcohol go to waste.” 

“Speak for yourself, I don’t intend to get drunk tonight.” 

Barnes grins at him, all teeth. 

“And you’d leave me to drink alone? Cruel, darlin’,” Barnes coos as he takes the bottle from Beast’s hand, stripping away the plastic covering on the mouth of the bottle. 

“It is five in the afternoon, and you want to get drunk _now_?”

“It’s a day and a half before our target even arrives and likely longer before we’ll have our first opportunity, we have a bottle of champagne and plenty of time on our hands, and you _don’t_ want to get drunk now?” Barnes wiggles his eyebrows, and Beast has to stifle a grin.

“Insatiable.” He scolds, and Barnes hums dismissively, popping the cork with one hand as he sets out two glasses. 

Beast rolls his eyes and plucks the crossword book from the side table where it has been abandoned, to thumb through the pages to find a blank puzzle for him to start filling it in, sitting cross-legged on the bed. 

He only makes it to 7 down before he finds himself stumped and glances up, fully intending to request help with the nine-letter word to see Barnes polishing off a glass and moving to pour himself another. 

Barnes catches his gaze and grins, crooking a finger at him in what was a decidedly come hither motion.

Beast sighs, but despite himself, tosses the crossword book aside, and stands up to pick up his own flute of champagne, downing it in a swift motion. 

Barnes smiles a soft, drunken smile, and Beast knows he has some catching up to do.

* * *

“Bite me,” Beast says. He’s probably too tipsy for this, and he’ll almost certainly regret it in the morning. It seems like a good idea at the moment. 

Barnes blinks at him in surprise, peering over the rim of his glass. His expression lingers startled before quickly melting into a warm smile, edges softened by alcohol.

“If you insist,” Barnes purrs, and he might be a little drunk as well. For a moment, they remain there, staring at each other. Beast feels like he's on fire. 

And then Barnes moves, slow and deliberate, despite his drunkenness, his hands are steady. He leans forward, gently setting his champagne down, eyes never leaving Beast, fixing him in place. A hand catches Beast’s wrist, and Beast dares to glance away from Barnes' eyes down to his hand as it gently pries the glass from his hand, setting it on the table with its partner. His hand then moves to settle on Beast’s hip. It's warm. Enoch is warm, from his gaze to his hands to his grin. It's so warm Beast feels like he's going to combust.

It happens so agonizingly slowly that Barnes tugs him out of his seat and drags Beast onto his lap. 

Beast is so dazed and delighted by Barnes’ sudden closeness, he doesn't even think to protest until Barnes has his dress shirt half unbuttoned and there are teeth pressing teasingly against his flesh, warm breath ghosting over his shoulder. 

Reason strikes him as the memory of why he asked Barnes to do such a thing fuzzily surfaces in his mind. 

“Not there.” He growls. The teeth slowly pricking his skin pause, Barnes hums, and the sound shoots through his chest. “Higher up on my neck, above my collar, where it can be seen.” 

“Hm, very well.” Barnes' voice is dreadfully sweet as he obliges. 

A warm mouth presses under his jawline, sucking a mark as teeth graze sensitive flesh. Beast shivers against Barnes and feels his rumbling laughter, silent, shaking up through Beast’s body as one of Barnes’ hands comes to rest on his chest. 

When Barnes releases him, his tongue flashes hot against Beast’s neck, soothing over the mark he left.

“Any particular reason you want it here? Not,” A swath of Enoch’s tongue makes Beast shudder in a not entirely unpleasant way. “That I am complaining, sugar. Just curious.” 

“Because,” Beast says, feeling horribly out of control of the situation, his fingers fisted in Barnes’ dress shirt. “We’re supposed to be newlyweds. We need to be convincing. And last I checked, newlyweds are typically all over each other.” 

Barnes laughs, a low chuckle against his skin. 

“I can think of one way to make it more convincing,” He drawls, hand creeping up Beast’s thigh. 

“I’m sure you can.” Beast retorts incredulously. “You’re inebriated.” He informs Barnes, who laughs. 

“Why, yes, sugar, I am. How astute of you to notice.” Barnes’ words are slurred at the edges, soft, they run into one another and melt into a hum pressed against Beast’s neck. 

Shakily, Beast clamors to his feet, ignoring the warm hands that tug against his hips and the disappointed hum that resounds behind him at his absence. 

“We’re going to bed.” He informs, and at Barnes' leer amends his statement. “To sleep.”

Barnes laughs a warm drunken thing and follows Beast’s tug against his collar, allowing himself to be led to the bed. Beast doesn’t think he has the place of mind to coax Barnes to undress, and if he did, he couldn’t possibly predict the outcome would be in his favor with Barnes shirtless-

Enoch shirtless. 

Now there was an image that he has to blink out of his head. 

They collapse onto the bed in a rough tangle, and Beast manages to kick his shoes off and hears them thud to the floor. 

Enoch has said something, something which Beast is giggling like a school girl about, though he can’t for the life of him remember what. Words spill slurred from his own lips, interspersed with laughter, and Enoch laughs, chest rumbling against him. The mirthful sound spills from the strong arms encircling him and makes Beast start laughing as well. 

He’s not entirely sure when consciousness seeps away, but he knows he falls asleep tucked against Enoch’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, you're upset, wheres the murderous violence in this chapter??? And I have an answer for you, this chapter was part of one really long chapter that got chopped in half, all of the nice murder is in the second half so that will be next week. 
> 
> In the mean time, please allow some And there was Only One Bed to sate you.


	4. Till Death We Do Not Part (For the Sake of Death)

Beast wakes up warm. 

He presses himself further against the warmth sprawled out below him, a hum on his lips before he realizes that the mattress spread out below him is slowly rising and falling.

He blinks his eyes open and finds himself curled up atop Barnes’ chest, an arm slung over his back holding him close. The rumbling of Barnes’ snoring reverberates from the man’s chest and vibrates through Beast, ebbing and flowing. The repetitive sound is occasionally cut off by a mutter of something barely intelligible.

It’s dreadfully comfortable and only vaguely mortifying considering the aching blooming across his neck. His memories of the last night are hazy with alcohol, but not nearly hazy enough to pretend he doesn’t recall the fool he made of himself. Just the thought makes his shoulders hunch with shame.

He flattens his hand across the bruise and wonders if it would be at all appropriate to wear a scarf to the beach.

Reluctantly, he peels himself away from Barnes and shivers. Dryly, he wonders if Barnes would find being compared to a heater humorous. 

It’s still dark out, and a glance at the cheap hotel supplied alarm clock tells him its early, far too early to be awake. He hums and tries to lay back down, squeezing himself onto the sliver of mattress that Barnes is not sprawled over, a problem which had been far less inconvenient when Beast had been using the man as a mattress. 

He lays, in the darkness of the room, staring at the sickly green numbers casting strange light for thirty minutes more before he abandons hope of returning to sleep. 

He adjusts his glasses, props himself up, and makes his way to where their luggage has ended up shoved against the wall. He pulls out a copy of their itinerary, their target’s itinerary, a map, and the notes he had received from the client about surveillance and camera locations. 

He steals the pen out of Barnes’ sudoku book and grabs a crumpled napkin disregarded by their empty glasses. 

It takes a rough shove, but Barnes grunts in his sleep and rolls over, leaving Beast with enough space to sit on the bed, leaning against the backboard. 

He uncaps the pen and begins to scribble out a plan.

It’s nearly two hours later when Barnes’ breathing changes, from the low rumbling snore to something decidedly closer to awake.

Barnes shifts on his side of the bed, and Beast glances down from the papers in his lap at the sleeping man. 

Barnes grunts and rolls over, eyes still squeezed shut.

An arm gropes blindly across the bed until it finds him, and Barnes lets out a grunt and tugs him closer, burying his face in the crook of Beast’s hip. Beast hums and scoots his paper to prop them up on the arm now strewn across his lap. 

It's a few minutes more before Barnes opens his eyes and props himself up on one elbow to peer at what Beast is working on. He blinks sleepily at the napkin on which he has scribbled a crude map of the facilities.

A hum, like dull thunder, resonates up through Barnes’ chest and through Beast’s body. 

“Working already?” He teases, his voice still rough from sleep. 

Beast makes a soft sound of affirmation as he draws an X across the map's residential areas. 

“We’re not on holiday, Barnes.” He says. 

“I’m not killing in another restaurant,” Barnes says against his hip, breath dancing warmly over the arch of Beast’s skin where his nightshirt has ridden up. “I always feel dreadfully guilty for the poor staff.” 

“Not over the dead man, though,” Beast says dryly. Barnes laughs, a gentle intoxicating sound. 

“I’m paid to kill men, not inconvenience minimum wage employees.” 

“It won’t matter. We’ve been requested to leave the body on the beach.” 

“There will be witnesses,” Barnes remarks. “Seems… unwise.”

“Perhaps not. A bad storm seems to be blowing in. There will be few folks out and about, fewer still at the beach.” 

“But will those few include our client?” 

“Almost undoubtedly. He’s a painter who wouldn’t pass up a stormy sea.”

“Darling, I know you’re not as caught up with technology that is not related to surveillance, but we do have a thing called photographs now. No need to brave the storm.” Barnes teases. Beast hums doubtfully in response, batting at Barnes’ shoulder. 

“You don’t understand. You’re not an “artist.”” He says, and Barnes laughs, still roughened by sleep at the way he teasingly stresses the word. 

“No, sugar, I suppose I’m not.” Barnes looks up at him with sleep-addled eyes, fondness so deep in them it makes Beast swallow thickly. 

“Go back to bed. It’s only six.” He forces the words out, dragging his gaze from Barnes' eyes back to his array of papers.

“I do believe I will,” Barnes says, throwing an arm over Beast and dragging him down to use as a glorified body pillow. 

Beast squawks his indifference, but that makes little difference to Barnes, who is loudly pretending to snore. Eventually, he gives up his protests with a huff and relaxes into Barnes’ arms. He is rewarded by a pleased hum as fake snoring fades into real snoring. Beast fights back the urge to fondly roll his eyes and tucks his head beneath Barnes’ chin before falling into a light sleep himself, lulled to sleep by gentle snores.

* * *

Thankfully, Barnes, for whatever reason, decides not to comment on the evidence of last night’s poor decision making decorating Beast's neck. Instead, only asking what Beast wanted for breakfast after they awoke at a more reasonable time. 

After a brief teasing argument about mimosas, they had their food and had decided that eating on the balcony was the best place to do their plotting. It was perhaps a poor decision considering the privacy walls were only a few inches thick, but the wind did the work of drowning out their voices well enough.

“And how would you like to spend the day, dear?” Barnes drawls, spearing his pancakes with his fork. 

“Something public,” Beast says as he pushes his eggs around on the plate. The meal is slightly cold, likely a direct result of needing to be carried up four floors by room service. Nevertheless, it’s delicious, and his appetite is as always voracious, but he finds his head is elsewhere. Probably on how sleep mused Barnes still looks. “To establish our presence.”

“And do you have a suggestion?” Barnes asks, brows cantering high. 

“The beach, perhaps. That will allow us to be somewhere public where we will be noticed.”

“There would be no records though, and therefore no guarantee of us being remembered.” The way Barnes speaks is a far cry from Beast's own cool demeanor. It's gentle, conversational, almost as if they are discussing whether they should go on a picnic rather than how to go about killing a man. 

Beast snorts and claps a hand over his mouth in surprise at the unbidden sound. Barnes seems distracted by his pancake stack slowly sliding off his plate, and Beast quickly recovers and forces composure. 

“Barnes, you shirtless will not only draw attention, but it  _ will _ be remembered. There's no question of that.” 

“Just because you can’t keep your eyes off me, darling, doesn’t mean other, better-mannered, folk can’t.” Barnes doesn't even seem to realize the gravity of what just fell out of his mouth as he takes another bite of pancake, but Beast’s neck goes hot. 

“They’ll notice.” He reiterates, and Barnes hums doubtfully. 

“I need to buy swimwear, though.” 

“No need, sugar. I still have your swimsuit from our job in Santa Cruz.” Beast chokes on a bite of egg at that. 

“Why on earth would you keep that?” He finally manages to ask, tone colored by exasperation. 

“It seemed like it would be a difficult style to find again.” 

“Yes!” Beast cries, eyes wide. “Because it’s a replica of a 1920s men's one-piece!”

A hand falls over his own, and Barnes raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Darling.” He says with a gentle smile. “You, and your taste in clothes, are absurd, but I am aware of how hard it is to acquire such things, so I saved it.” 

Beast grunts and pulls his hand out of Barnes’. 

“Thank you.” He says at last. “I haven't been able to find a replacement.” 

Barnes smiles sunnily at him, and Beast looks down at his eggs, wondering how the hell he got himself into this mess. 

* * *

It’s an overcast day, foretelling the storm that's sure to blow in tomorrow, but the beach is still decorated by a handful of people undaunted by the looming grey storm clouds. Barnes finds them a place close enough to where water licks against the shore that the foam stops only a few feet away. 

“Are you going to make a sandcastle?” Barnes blinks at the question, eyes flitting with polite confusion.

“Pardon?” Barnes asks as he lays out a towel across the sand. 

“You don’t recall, Barnes? During our Santa Cruz job, you talked incessantly about how after the job was over, you planned to spend a day at the beach building sandcastles.”

Barnes’ brow furrows thoughtfully. 

“I suppose that didn’t pan out the way I hoped.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Beast snorts.

“It was a terribly romantic train ride, though,” Barnes says, trying to suppress a grin, and Beast fights back memories of balancing atop a racing train as the world blurred in the corner of his vision, from blood loss or speed he doesn't quite recall.

“For all of twelve minutes.” 

Barnes has no response except laughter, sweet and warm like apple cider on a cold winter day. 

Beast lays back on the towel, folding his hands on his stomach and letting his eyes fall shut as Barnes sits down and begins digging in the sand. 

“We should have brought a shovel.” He says after a few moments.

Beast grunts in response and makes a comment about their grievous oversight before lapsing into a comfortable silence. Minutes pass, and he listens to the sound of Barnes sifting through sand and packing it together, framed by the distant noises of children playing and the crash of the sea. A shadow rises and hangs over him, and Beast blinks his eyes open in time to see Barnes standing over him, placing the smallest clam Beast has ever seen upon his chest.

Beast glances between the tiny clam and Barnes, who grins at him. 

He makes a sound, something close to a huff of dismissal, and lets his eyes fall shut again, soaking in the warmth of the sun as it slips between the clouds before being swallowed up again. 

Barnes continues his misshapen sandcastle building, adding to the collection of clams on Beast’s chest whenever he digs up another of the pearly-shelled creatures.

Beast doesn’t sleep, but he does lay back, eyes shut, and listen to the waves. 

When Barnes' humming joins the ambient sounds lingering in the air, he finds himself humming along unbidden. Barnes does not comment, but when Beast peeks up at him, he can see the slight grin occupying the man's face.

It's around noon when his chest has become a refuge for twelve tiny clams and a hermit crab in a spiral shell, that Barnes nudges him to cast judgment over his sandcastle. 

It’s far from a professional sandcastle, and nothing particularly impressive, aside from the fact that Barnes made it by hand. It leans on one side, and there are cracks and gaps in the sand that show that as soon as the tide comes in, it will crumble beneath the ocean’s assault. 

“It’s lovely.” He says dryly as he drops the clams and the hermit crab into the shallow moat. 

“Why, thank you, sugar,” Barnes purrs, standing with less space between them than is probably appropriate for professionals, but more than would be expected between spouses. 

They eat lunch on the beach from a small sandwich shop set up on the shoreline and watch as the tide comes in and takes Barnes’ sandcastle with it. They stay on there until the water forces them back, licking up at the edges of Beast’s towel and making them both reek of salt. 

Dinner at one of the restaurants that caters to couples on the beachfront is just as overcast as the rest of the day had been, but Beast is too busy laughing to pay any mind to looming storm clouds. Barnes has gathered quite the collection of stories since they last met, and as he regales them with as straight a face as he can manage, Beast cannot help but grin wickedly. 

He missed Barnes. 

A fact that was only painfully obvious when the man was trying to suppress giggles as Beast details his latest client, a painfully unaware teenager whose case he had taken for half of his usual price.

That night, when he sleeps, tucked in Barnes' arms- to conserve space on the bed, of course- he dreams of sandcastles.

Beast was right. 

The painter was out trying to depict the storm. 

His easel is set upon a swath of hard sand, a plastic divider strapped to his easel shielded his canvas from the rain and the wind. Slowly, something was beginning to take shape on the empty expanse of canvas, something Beast can’t quite see from where he stands with Barnes. 

They feign casualness, walking hand in hand, pointing out sun-lit breaks in the clouds in the distance, where gilded light cuts through the ominous grey like the glittering blade of a sword piercing the waves and splitting the sky. The waves crest and break in splashes of foam, tossing water high into the air, filling Beast’s head with the roar of the ocean. The air is thick with salt, and it tosses Beast’s hair to and fro like a child with a plaything. 

“Your hair tie has come undone,” Barnes remarks casually, his low voice buffeted by the roar of waves and the distant crack of thunder. Lightning, like a forked tongue, lights up silver in the distance. 

Frowning, Beast reaches back and finds that Barnes is correct; the ribbon has come undone, which explained why he was having a devil of a time keeping his hair out of his eyes. 

He moves to pull it back to retie and finds Barnes plucking the ribbon from his hands. 

“Please, sugar,” Barnes says, his voice dreadfully saccharine. “Allow me.” 

Beast rolls his eyes, fighting back a tendril of affection that coils around his heart, and turns to allow Barnes to gather his hair.

Barnes does a good job pulling as much of his hair back as he can before pulling the ribbon into a neat bow, snug. It does wonders to reduce the amount of hair in his eyes. 

“Thank you.” He says, so softly it's swallowed by the crash of the waves, but Barnes smiles sunnily nevertheless. 

Beast casts a glance to the painter, enraptured in his canvas, then to Barnes. 

“Put your gloves on, then put your hands in your pocket.” Barnes silently obeys, and Beast tucks his hand into the crook of Barnes’ elbow. 

He puts a curious look upon his face and all but drags Barnes along towards the man. 

They walk up behind him, and Beast sends a careful glance around the beach, empty, as far as the eye can see. And that’s as much security as they’re going to get. 

When the man notices them lingering behind him, he jumps, clutching his paintbrush close to his chest. 

“Oh! Pardon me-” His words stumble out of his mouth, tripping over one another in their hurry. “Am I in your way?” His fingers dance nervously against the brush, and his eyes dart around, laughing weakly as if realizing the foolishness of the question on an empty beach. 

Paranoid. 

“Our apologies, we didn’t mean to stare. We were only watching you work.” Beast rumbles, putting on an apologetic look. “It’s not often I see artists out on the beach. Do you mind if I take a closer look at it?” 

The man seems to consider, glancing between the two of them, flightiness written in his every movement. He seems particularly fearful of Barnes, who still cuts an imposing figure despite his relaxed posture and gentle smile. 

Lightning licks through the sky, and a beat later, thunder shakes up through their feet, and the man jerks again but seems to come to a decision. 

“Yes, of course.” He gestures towards the painting and takes a step back. Beast detached from Barnes to step forward and scrutinize the canvas. The painter continues to glance between them fearfully.

“Such an interesting painting.” Barnes remarks as Beast scrutinizes the painting. Their target’s skill for capturing the rolling fluidity of the water is truly wonderful. It's a shame it won't last much longer. “My husband’s a bit of an artist himself. Which I imagine is why he dragged us over here.” Beast finds his attention straying from the painting to admire Barnes' acting as notes of apology and humor twist themselves into pleasantries.

“Does your husband paint?” Their target asks, curiously sending a glance over at Beast, his shoulders still belay his paranoia, but he relaxes more with each word Barnes speaks. A pang of envy goes through him at Barnes’ innate ability to put anyone at ease. 

“He dabbles. He’s mostly a singer these days. I’m afraid I don’t have much of a head for art." Barnes' tone slips into curiosity. "I must ask, how did you create the effect of the foam with a brush like that? It seems terribly difficult.” Barnes’ voice is so sincere, one might mistake it for genuine curiosity. 

The artist turns away from his painting and Beast, seemingly eager for someone to chat with about his work. They lapse into friendly conversation, and soon the man no longer turns to look over his shoulder Beast and the painting, enraptured by Barnes’ gentle wit. 

A steadying breath is all he needs. A flash of lightning splits the air.

Beast slips the ribbon out of his hair and has it around the man’s neck in a second. The man stumbles back, paintbrush and palette clattering to the ground. 

Thunder roars.

Only a few moments more, before the man passes out, Beast counts the seconds expertly, watching as the flush of the man's neck begins to turn an ugly purple.

And then, before Beast can interpret it, Barnes has swept one leg under the man’s feet, knocking the struggling painter off-balance, yanking him out of Beast’s grip and heaving him up to bring down over one knee. Barnes is so quick, so smooth, his professionalism taking over as his pleasant look remained on his face. 

The sound of a spine snapped over Barnes' knee is something between a crack and a squelch. 

Barnes drops the man in the sand and kneels briefly to check for a pulse. Satisfied, he stands and removes his gloves, neatly folding them and tucking them in his pocket. 

“That was not how we agreed to do that,” Beast says as he ties his hair back up, glancing at the ribbon with mild disdain. 

“He had a knife.” Barnes nods down at the body, and Beast finds his brows creeping up as he notes the way the man’s hand has fallen across his hip, across the knife stealthily hidden by the edge of a shirt. “I figured you’d rather keep blood out of the occasion, sugar.” 

Beast hums in acknowledgment and glances down at the man who lays upon his back, face twisted into fear. His body is bent at an angle that it really shouldn't be.

Beast stoops and plucks the paintbrush from the ground where it has left a smear of paint across the sand. 

He kneels and paints an X over each of the man’s eyes before turning to the painting. It's not done, but the picture of it is beginning to come together, a frothy sea and an angry rolling sky. 

In sloppy letters, he paints: 

BEWARE THE ANTLERED ONE

Then steps back to admire his handy work. 

“Trying out a new calling card?” Barnes asks as he removes his gloves, tucking them into a pocket. 

“Of course not. We might as well give the investigators something to chase at.” He regards his work and ads a flourish to the man’s right hands before deciding that it's better to air on the side of minimalism than overwork it. He turns back to Barnes and finds himself taken aback by the lovestruck look in his eyes. 

“Wipe that look off your face Barnes.” He barks, setting down the paintbrush back where it had fallen, carefully. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen me do before.” 

“I missed you.” Barnes’ voice is so soft, so earnest it makes Beast’s heart catch. 

He blinks away his surprise and briskly walks to take Barnes’ hand in his own to lead him back towards the resort, choosing not to comment. 

“It’s been so long,” Barnes’ voice is soft and sincere. The crack of thunder only serves to remind Beast of how wet they’re getting, the rainwater matting their shirts to their bodies. “Can you even recall the last time we killed anyone together?” 

“Paris, two years three months ago. We poisoned her.” Beast recites back and then pauses, face flickering as he considers the implications of the fact he remembers that. He certainly doesn’t remember the last time he killed with Lorna, and it couldn’t have been more than 6 months ago. 

They slip between the buildings, out of view of the cameras, and back onto the main walk, headed towards their resort. 

As the building comes into view, Barnes smiles at him, squeezing his hand, their fingers laced tightly together.

“Still too long.” He murmurs.

The sound of screams that is usually associated with finding a body fill the air, distantly enough, under the thunder and the howl of the wind, that they have plausible deniability not to hear it.

“Stop grinning like a fool. You’ll blow our cover, Barnes.” There’s no bite in his tone, only affection. Barnes only laughs in response.

“I believe we are undercover as a pair of honeymooners, Pumpkin. I’m allowed to grin like a fool at my new spouse.”

“Are you sure it's not the grisly murder I just allowed you to commit in my stead?”

Barnes hums thoughtfully at that, his hip bumping playfully against Beast’s. 

“Let me see,” He drawls. “I just snapped a man over my knee, and I have my dashing husband on my arm. Which one could possibly be responsible for the grin on my face.” 

“If you say both, Barnes, I will have to personally murder you.” 

“Hm, tempting, but no,” Barnes croons. “I’m reasonably sure it is my husband.” His voice sinking sinfully low. 

Beast swallows thickly. 

After a beat of silence, Barnes speaks up. 

“You know, sugar, between the two of us, you’re far closer to blowing our cover.” 

Beast tries to glance at him to glower at him, but Barnes is wearing that infuriating grin that makes Beast too hot in the face to keep looking at him. 

Barnes’ fingers tighten around his own. 

“What kind of husband calls his new spouse by their last name.”

Beast growls. 

Two can play at this game. 

“Why you’re absolutely correct,” He coos in a sickly sweet tone. “It slipped my mind, dearheart.” 

Barnes seems to positively melt beside him. 

“Oh,” Barnes says, voice soft and shaky. “Please do that again, as often as you like. Preferably more often, every day perhaps, hourly even.”

“You’re absolutely weak-kneed, over what? A pet name?” Beast scoffs, positively flabbergasted. 

“A pet name that  _ you _ called me.” Barnes insists with such soft fondness in his voice, it makes Beast’s throat feel tight.

Beast forces himself to scoff. 

“If that will leave you in  _ this  _ state, what on earth would something like a kiss do?” 

“Would you like to find out?” Barnes grins at him, eyebrows rising teasingly.

Barnes evidently is not expecting Beast to take him up on that offer if the startled noise he makes when Beast grabs his tie is anything to go by. 

Beast hauls him down and buries his other hand in Barnes’ collar, pulling the man down against him and crashing their lips together in a positively clumsy fashion.

Barnes groans, and a hand twines in Beast’s wet hair, tilting the kiss into something more gentle. 

Enoch tastes like salt.

Abruptly, Beast finds himself remarkably out of control of this situation.

Barnes' hand that is not busy tangled in his hair falls upon Beast’s hip, pulling their bodies flush against each other. 

Barnes is warm. 

His hands, his body, his lips, like fire against Beast’s frigid skin. They’re both soaked, but Barnes’ hand at his hip and his hand in his hair makes him burn. The cold rain and angry thunder could be miles away for how he feels. 

Barnes tilts his head and deepens the kiss, and Beast, Beast melts. 

When Barnes finally draws back, Beast wants to chase his lips. 

His face is hot. 

He swallows thickly. 

Water drips down his face from his hair, which Barnes takes the liberty of brushing out of his face. The man looks down at him, a crooked grin on his face and mischief and delight dancing in his eyes. His hand has not left Beast’s hip and  _ burns _ .

He's going to combust if Barnes keeps looking at him that way.

“Let's do that again.” He coos and Beast is suddenly acutely aware of how close they are when Barnes' voice vibrates through his chest. 

After a few moments of flustered struggling, Beast finally manages to spit out. 

“Insatiable.” He mutters. 

Barnes laughs, and Beast tries to cover his face. 

Barnes’ hand detangles from his hair to grab his wrist and force his hand away from his face.

The next kiss, they meet halfway.

“I want a divorce.” 

“No, you don't.”

Beast grins against Barnes’ lips despite himself.


	5. For the Sake of You (Weak Men Together Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the bloodiest and goriest chapter in this story, as a warning. You can read up until the first break and then start reading again at "They get turned around once or twice but eventually find their way to the front door." If you really want to avoid the violence.

Enoch is not an easy man to reach. 

The most reliable way to get in contact with him was to get a message to Clara, who was herself, not an easy woman to find. 

Clara at least had a publicly available P.O. box, though the address was quite the hassle to come by, and her email could be found for those who were willing to do some digging. If one was particularly bold and had enough connections and favors, they might even be able to find her phone number. 

Even if one managed to get a message into Clara's hands, there was no guarantee that that message would ever make it beyond the paper shredder to Enoch. Despite firmly denying being a secretary, she had no problem screening messages for him and did it entirely without his permission. 

She threw out anything she deemed unnecessary, a waste of time, impolite, or simply not something Enoch needed to be focused on. She was tireless and seemed to find some sort of joy in rejecting emails and rifling through Enoch’s mail only to dump half of it in the bin without ever opening it. 

Enoch let her do as she wanted. He was a busy man, and he trusted her.

Enoch was hardly ever on his own email, and the few letters that he ever managed to get a hold of were usually bills or letters from old friends. 

That being said, Enoch did have one method of communication not screened by Clara, though it was not particularly easy to find. 

Enoch had a phone, usually on silent, tucked in his pocket. 

The phone number was a hard thing to come by, not impossible, but definitely hard. As it was, only 6 people had his phone number, and five of them were not likely to give it up even under threat of death.

The 6th?

Well, the 6th was Beast, who, for all Enoch knew, did not possess a phone. He would not be surprised if the man had forgotten it the moment he was told. 

It's a pleasant day, the kind of day when the sun's warmth is nearly tepid, lazy as it turns the edges of the world soft with golden light, and Enoch is enjoying a cup of coffee with more sugar than anyone in their right mind would approve of. 

His office is a nice little thing, tucked in the government building of his commune of assassins, lined with books and with more hidden weapons and crawl spaces than should rightfully fit in such a tidy little room. 

He has paperwork he should be doing, but he is instead occupying himself with the newspaper.

When his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, he withdraws it almost lazily, unconcerned, expecting to see Clara’s name darting across the screen. 

When he is confronted with an unknown number, his brows canter upward.

He shouldn't be getting spam calls. He’s on the do-not-call registry for a reason.

Namely, for a bit of a scuff he had gotten into with the government, but really that was neither here nor there.

Despite not recognizing the caller I.D., he answers it, carefully setting down the newspaper as he flicks through the pages.

“Hello, this is Enoch Barnes. How may I help you this fine afternoon?” He purrs into the phone. He pauses to glance over an article about a local school shutting down before thumbing to the next page.

Distantly he hears muffled noises of surprise on the other side. 

“Shit, this is his actual number? I thought the old man lied to us to get us off his back.”

“It's him? You’re kidding-” 

“The number he told us between telling us to fuck off was real?” 

A multitude of voices muttering over each other fills the air, and Enoch finds his intrigue growing distantly. He flips open the paper to the sudoku puzzle. 

“Pardon me, can I help you?” He asks, turning his attention to the phone for a moment, scrounging in his pocket for a pen, and the voices hush one another.

One of them clears their throat. 

“We have your husband.” 

Enoch chuckles and rolls his eyes. He flattens the paper in front of him, smoothing out the creases and giving it an appraising look before scratching out a 9 into the sudoku puzzle and then, frowning, scribbles it out. He sets his phone down on the desk and taps on the speaker so he can work without holding it up with his shoulder.

He's too old to be practicing lousy posture, after all.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken; I’m not married.” He murmurs, adding a three in one of the columns when he remembers to answer.

The flurry of voices returns. 

“He says he’s not married,” 

Ah, that was also a three.

“We heard him, you dolt, he’s lying, he’s got to be-” 

And that meant this must be a six.

“People don't just go on honeymoons with complete strangers, you fucking idiot. He’s gotta be married.”

Enoch raises a brow, silently debating whether that was an eight or a one. He taps it with his finger and realizes that the voices on the other end of the phone are still arguing.

“Gentlemen,” Enoch says, and they go quiet at once. “Who exactly do you have?” 

“Fuck if we know, man. Bites like a fucking bitch, though!” One of the men on the other side shouts before being hushed.

Enoch suppresses a grin. Such charming young men.

“What my associate  _ means _ to say," There's a poignant pause as Enoch fills in another number. "is that he refuses to give us a name. He definitely was on a honeymoon with you.”

“Hm, I’m afraid I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” He says as he writes in an eight, voice painted by distraction.

“Maybe it would help if I described him to you?” Enoch is charmed by these now hesitant young men. Idly he wonders if this is the first time they’ve tried to extort someone for money, they had promise if they had managed to find someone who happened to know Enoch’s personal number. 

Perhaps he could offer to hire them.

“Well, go on then.” He urges gently as he traces a two out onto the paper.

“Er, he’s a pretty tall thin guy, wears glasses, dark hair, sort of long. Long enough to tie back, you know," The man begins to ramble. "He’s maybe 6ft… ish?” Enoch nods along as the man on the other side of the line describes no less than 4 gentlemen Enoch has encountered in the last 24 hours. 

They continue on, and Enoch finishes filling out roughly a third of the puzzle. Everything has begun to fall into place, and from now it's really only a matter of filling out what he doesn't yet have written in. 

“He looks like he got pretty badly burned on his left side.” His pen freezes where it is touching the puzzle, and dark inky fingers seep out from it into the thin paper.

Distraction flees from his mind in an instant, replaced by a sudden sickening clarity.

“I’m sorry, did you say burns?” Enoch asks, his voice suddenly icy as fear dawns through him, his attention now rapt upon the phone. 

“Yeah, like covering almost all of his left side, not super noticeable because it's all like, under his clothes. The burns stop just above his collar, or like if he was wearing a collared shirt, you wouldn't-” 

Enoch thinks if he holds the pen even a little bit tighter, he'll have a mess on his hands.

“Put him on the phone.” He demands. 

“What- we can’t do-” 

“Give him the phone, idiot-” 

A sudden cacophony of struggle and argument blooms on the other side of the line. Enoch is not nearly as endeared by it as he was before, his fingers drum the table impatiently, the pen having fallen from his grip.

A door crashes open. 

"Wake up, bastard," One of the voices calls distantly.

“Have I not sated your questions, you absolute-” Beast’s distinctive voice cuts sharply through the speakers of the phone. 

Enoch clutches his fist.

“Here, talk,” One of the men on the other line says, cutting Beast off. “It's your husband,” 

“I’m not married-” Beast protests, and Enoch can hear the snarl in it. 

“Beast?” Enoch asks, forcing his voice into something calm and composed. There's a desperation in it that he knows Beast will be able to see through, but he cannot really spare the effort to care at the moment.

“Enoch?” Beast’s surprise is apparent in his voice. He doesn't even bother with Enoch’s last name. 

And that's perhaps the most troubling revelation of all.

“Where are you?” Enoch’s voice is hurried with urgency. 

“Somewhere in the midwestern United States, Minnesota perhaps.” Beast's voice has a level of casual disinterest that Enoch wishes he felt. On the other end of the line, sudden yelps and exclamations of fear and upset split the air.

“I’m coming to get you.” 

Enoch doesn't even wait to hear Beast’s response or the clattering of the gentlemen on the other end of the line, just stands up, clutching his phone as voices spill out in a staticky mess. He forces himself to relax his fingers because there will be no way to identify where the call came from if he crushes the phone. 

The tone of someone hanging up rings through his ears as he storms out of his office to find Miss Clara.

* * *

Enoch’s patience is frayed. He will not lie and deny that he’s frazzled, distressed to the point no words could describe. His stomach churns like he's swallowed a nest of moths, and he thinks he'll be sick every time he thinks of Beast captured and held for ransom. However, his state of mind is no excuse for the positively sloppy way he snaps the first guard’s neck. 

It's so far from clean. He has to give two solid twists before red leaks out of the young man's mouth and coats his hands. 

He’s worried, so sick to his stomach he feels like he’s going to spill his guts on the pavement, anxious in a way that makes his hands shake that not even professionalism can cover, but more than anything else, he’s angry.

Angry in a way that makes his blood boil and makes his fingers twitch with the need to feel bone give way beneath them. Rage swirls like a hideous beast in the pit of his stomach, wild and undirected, at everything. He's angry with the boys who dared try to extort him, who took Beast, for their foolishness and idiocy. Angry at Clara for wanting to take precautions and stalling him for nearly two days with preparations. Angry at the company he had used to catch a plane for delaying his flight for four hours. Angry with Beast for always being so reclusive, Enoch can’t tell if he’s in trouble or merely on vacation. Angry with himself for allowing such a thing to happen.

His anger seethes and rolls beneath his skin, building into a rolling boil. At the airport, he had carefully put on a smile as the muscles in his neck tensed, and he had ground his teeth as the plane raced onward. At the rental car company, he had forced his anger down, swallowing it like venom, but it was like stoking a fire, and it built and built until it was an inferno he could barely think around.

He’s fuming by the time he comes across them. 

The boy, no older than 20, whimpers when Enoch's hand falls on his shoulder. His neck gives a sickening crack beneath Enoch’s strength, and he drops the boy, letting his body hit the pavement.

He’s the only guard outside of the cold office building, tucked into the countryside, stark against the fields and forests. 

Enoch stoops to take the man’s gun. He’s brought his own, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly enough to get any ammo. 

That should be where it ends. He should just walk into the building and leave the corpse behind. He's a professional. 

But his head swims, fuzzy with vitriol, and he knows he won't be able to pull this off alone if he doesn't keep a clear head. 

So he brings his foot up and brings it crashing down on the man's head, taking his anger out on the poor body. Again and again, his face twisting into a vindictive grin when the stomping begins to make less of a crunching sound and more of a squish. They would have to identify the man by fingerprints alone because there was nothing left of his face that would give any indication he was ever anything more than a bloody smear on the pavement.

He takes a breath, calming himself, forces his shoulders still, and turns to walk into the building.

The next individual he meets is a young woman, who, upon seeing him, startles and makes a choked noise, grasping for her gun. 

Enoch finds his lips flicking into a scowl and sends a bullet into her hand. He doesn't have the time or patience for warning shots. She doesn't scream, and that at least is a credit in her favor. 

The gunshot echoes, a testament to the grim look on his face.

“Where is he?” It's low, closer to a growl than he’d hope to admit. 

The young woman swallows thickly and points, and her hands shake. 

Enoch thanks her by putting a bullet through her skull and storming down the hallway. 

It’s an office building, Enoch really doesn’t know what he expected, but neat empty cubicles and organized meeting rooms with glass walls were possibly the furthest thing from what he anticipated.

He’s calmer the next time he encounters someone, which is good considering the fact he has to put a table between himself and their guns in a matter of only a few seconds. For a moment, he allows his mind to wander enough to admire the craftsmanship of the table and or the inaccuracy of these men. Really, he isn’t picky. 

The pair of them are loitering in a meeting room, and he would wager a guess that they’re not supposed to be there from their state of semi-undress and rumpled hair.

His first shot goes awry and buries itself in the wall, but the second digs metal teeth into flesh, sending a spray of red across the room. He takes a vindictive pleasure in hearing a body hit the floor and then winces as the table splinters next to his shoulder. 

Damningly enough, he finds his clip empty the next time he turns to return fire. 

He swears, and promptly grabs the nearest object, and throws it over his shoulder. 

The glass wall of the meeting room shatters like silver rain as a bullet goes through it and the tinkling clatter of glass on the ground burns in Enoch’s ears as he throws a chair as hard as he can.

As it turns out, that is remarkably hard, but chairs are remarkably unaerodynamic.

His aim, however, is impeccable, and it catches the man in the chest, knocking him to the ground, long enough for Enoch to throw another chair. 

It's not a very refined technique, but it does the job.

Enoch rolls up his sleeves and wipes away blood that he can’t be bothered to find the source of as it drips down his fingers. He divests the man of his gun and sets off on his way, stopping only a few more times to request directions from a few less than willing helpers. 

His anger does not entirely melt away but settles down to a low simmer on the back burner of his mind as the practiced motions of a job take over, lapsing into habit rather than blind rage. 

However, he is far less forgiving than he might usually be, considering the trail of corpses he leaves in his wake.

As he creeps deeper into the building, making no secret of his presence, he wonders if perhaps it would have been wise to wait for backup. However, as the  _ fifth _ missed shot in the last 20 seconds clears his head by about 7 feet, he wonders if he should be going easy on them. 

His fist connects with a jaw, and he feels an awful cracking resonate up through his fingers. He flexes his hand, checking to see if he’s broken anything before hastily ducking around a corner. The sting of a bullet grazing his shoulder makes him wince, his hand flying up to shield the wound, now seeping red into his hand. 

If any of his actions could have been considered merciful or forgiving before that, they are quickly replaced by clinical brutality.

Eventually, he forces a young man to give him exact directions and thanks the man by knocking him out with the butt of the gun before sending a bullet between his eyes.

From there, it’s easy enough. It seems he drew out most of the folk in his previous fights, and only a scant few remain. Those who do are easily dispatched. 

Viscera clings to his hands in a gory pulp, making them slick in a way that means he has to wipe them against his pants every time he retrieves a new gun and the blood that clings to his outfit ensures that there's no way to save it.

Copper hangs in the air like a sickening perfume. If he was a younger man, a less trained man, he might wretch at the smell. As it was, he only had one thought on his mind. 

Beast.

It's incredibly evident when he finds the room where Beast is being held because someone has helpfully taped a sign to it that reads "Mr. Barnes' husband: Mr. Barnes."

His hand falls on the doorknob, and he freezes. There's sound on the other side of the door, and he presses his ear against it and makes out the sound of a struggle on the other side.

Panic rears its head in his chest, its poison creeping through his mind.

His chest tightens, but he forces himself to breathe. 

He’s a professional. 

The door is locked, there’s no reason it shouldn’t be, but he damns it anyway. 

His shoulder aches when he rams against it the first time. It’s a sturdy door, but he's a big man and a determined one at that. It takes two more colossal blows before the door begins to groan its protest, and with one final blow, it splinters away beneath his shoulder. He forces his way into the room in a haze of anger and fear, eyes darting frantically around the room for Beast and his assailants. 

He finds the assailants in a pile on the floor and Beast standing over them, sending a savage kick into the pile.

Beast glances up, startled, his knife produced from somewhere unseen and brandished before him as if it would be any match for Enoch’s gun. The poor man is a mess. His long hair, typically pulled back, falls in messy curtains of black and silver around his face, which is littered with bruises and a cut that runs up one cheek. His shirt is nearly rags, and through its holes, Enoch can see purple-yellow bruises decorating Beast's body.

The man is absolutely covered in blood, some of it so old it has turned a rusty brown on his clothes, and some of it fresh still slickly dripping off of him. Enoch frowns, hoping to high heaven none of it was Beast’s.

There's a tenseness in his shoulders like a bowstring pulled taught as wild eyes dart across Enoch.

Enoch watches as recognition flickers between the spiderwebbed cracks of his glasses. 

Enoch takes him in for a moment, drinking in relief that Beast is  _ fine _ and not only is he fine, he's right here right now. 

And then he's angry, and it's bubbling up and spilling out of him, turning his vision red, and he pulls up the gun and lets loose into the pile of men on the floor until it begins to click emptily. 

He drops the gun, taking a steadying breath, and turns his attention back to Beast, who watches him with an unreadable expression.

And then he watches Beast’s mouth twist into a smile and relaxes. 

“I wondered who might have caused such a ruckus.” He murmurs softly. His voice is rough as if he has not had something to drink in a long time, but it's like the chorus of angels to Enoch's ears.

“Well, I came to break you out, sugar. I can see you didn’t need my help.” Enoch hums rolls his shoulders.

Beast waves a hand dismissively. 

“Nonsense, I couldn’t have untied the knots if they had not been distracted arguing.”

Enoch smiles broadly. He cannot help himself. Beast is a sight for sore eyes, and Enoch's eyes feel like they're aching. It's so easy, so painfully easy to slip back into their typical song and dance. 

“Glad to be of assistance.” He croons, stepping closer and offering his hand to the Beast.

The man graciously accepts, his hand slotting into Enoch's as if it was made to be there. He steps forward, pressing himself against Enoch's side and letting Enoch lead him out of the room. He’s unsteady on his feet and heavily favors his right leg, which makes Enoch's mouth pull into a frown. Enoch winces in sympathy at the raw red marks around his wrists.

Enoch and Beast walk, Enoch’s arm around him, in case he needs to be propped up, as Beast limps alongside him. They make their way out of the abandoned facility, stepping gingerly over lifeless bodies, their shoes making squeaking noises as they trekked crimson footprints behind them.

Twice Enoch makes Beast stay behind while he clears out some stragglers he missed his first time sweeping the building, and twice Beast does not listen to him and buries his knife in soft flesh, his grin wild and manic.

Enoch cannot blame him for wanting to take some well-deserved revenge. 

Eventually, they come upon a man trying to prop himself up on a broken wrist, and Enoch hardly hesitates, bringing one foot up and slamming it down on the man’s ribcage. It gives beneath the force of the stomp, as a sickening crunch and squelching sound fill the air. 

The man tries to scream, but all that comes out is a wet garbled noise as he chokes on his own blood, lips tainted and glittering with crimson. 

Carefully, Enoch helps Beast step over the man, leading him through identical hallways, only vaguely aware of where he is in the building. 

They get turned around once or twice but eventually find their way to the front door. 

Beast allows himself to be fussed over and ushered into Enoch’s car without protest, slumping down once he manages to win a battle against his seatbelt. Enoch frowns at the way his hands shake and the small pained noises he makes under his breath but doesn't comment. 

“There’s a bottle of water and food in the glove department.” He says, instead, and steers the car out onto the road. 

Beast tries to pace himself, and his efforts are admirable, but he devours all five protein bars and downs the bottle of water in less than ten minutes, gorging himself as if he has never tasted food. Enoch hums idly and is met by a weak harmony. It takes longer for Beast to speak up unprompted, but that’s fine. Enoch is content to wait. 

Half an hour later, the road spans forward dauntingly, and Enoch is fighting the urge to turn on the radio when Beast speaks. 

“I’m afraid I’ve made an awful mess of your car.” His voice is still ragged at the edges, but it's gentle, filled with weak humor. 

“Nothing to worry about, sugar. It’s a rental.” He croons, shooting a grin at him. 

That startles a laugh from Beast, a surprised peal, which morphs into a pained cough.

They lapse into a comfortable silence before Beast glances over at him, brows arching. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I was shot,” Enoch replies matter a factly. 

“Pull over.” Beast’s voice doesn’t have the same command it usually possesses, sounding instead like he swallowed a bucked of razor blades and washed it down with gravel. 

Enoch protests, but when Beast glowers and threatens to run the car off the road, he obediently pulls into the shoulder and puts the car into park.

“Do you have bandages?” Beast is already in Enoch’s personal space, his blade ripping through the fabric of his sleeve. 

“Not with me, no, Pumpkin,” Enoch says as Beast presses the wadded-up fabric against the wound in his arm to staunch the bleeding. He winces. 

Beast's movements are fluid and practiced. It's certainly not the first time either of them have done this.

“Were you shot anywhere else?” 

“Would you like to check?” He teases, the response tumbling out of his mouth before he even registers the question. He is rewarded by a glare and laughs. “Only a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing I haven’t lived through before.” 

“It’s a miracle you made it through as unscathed as you did.” Beast growls.

“They weren’t exactly the most difficult group I’ve ever taken down. Speaking of which, Sugar, how did they get their hands on you?” Enoch asks curiosity. He had been fighting off since the phonecall seeping into his voice.

Beast huffs at that, ripping a length from the hem of his shirt to bind around Enoch’s wound, tying it tight enough to prevent further blood flow if it begins to bleed again, but not so tight that it becomes a tourniquet. 

“I’ll have to clean it later,” He remarks. “And get some actual bandages, but I doubt you’ll need stitches.” 

“I can’t help but notice you’re deflecting, dear.” Beast sighs pointedly, checking over the rest of Enoch’s arm, fingers dancing across thin scrapes. 

“You’ve got glass in some of these.” Beast’s face twists into a frown. 

Enoch shrugs. 

“I jumped through a window at one point today.”

There's a beat of silence, and then Beast sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. He seems torn between divesting Enoch of the glass now, all the while fighting the small confines of the car or allowing Enoch to drive them to their destination before doing so. Eventually, he chooses the latter, slinking back to his seat and buckling his seat belt.

Enoch waits until they’re a few minutes down the road, winding out before them as he scrounges his mind for directions. Beast has returned to staring out the window to watch the place where land and sky blurred as they rolled past. 

“You never did answer my question, Cricket.” 

Beast huffs, at last, he speaks, and he sounds exhausted. 

“Oh, it was a mess. You remember Lorna, of course,” Enoch hums in affirmative. “Well, Lorna got a message to me that was absolutely incomprehensible, which I assume must have been a warning, but I don’t have a head for codes. So I went to check on her and found that she had fled her little boneyard and that there was an ambush for me.” 

Enoch pauses for a moment, turning it over in his mind. 

He knows as well as anyone else what an ambush could do to a man and how much it bruised one's pride to fall victim to it.

Eventually, he speaks, steering the conversation away from such a delicate topic.

“And how  _ is _ Lorna?” 

“I don’t have any whisper of an idea.” Worry creeps into the fringes of Beast’s voice as he admits that. “She’s a clever girl, I imagine she’s fine, but I won’t know until I visit her boneyard.” Enoch hums at that and reaches for his phone. 

He offers it to Beast, keeping his eyes on the road. 

Tentatively, Beast takes it from his hands, fingers fluttering across the screen, past Enoch’s lock screen, which Enoch pointedly ignores, and across the dial pad. 

The trills of the call are soft, picked up on the third ring. 

If Enoch strain’s his ears, he can hear the shape of a voice, soft and flighty. 

“Lorna,” Beast says, only to be immediately interrupted by a flurry of distress that silences the man immediately. “Lorna, I am fine. I had an associate come to fetch me- No, the Dutchess was not involved- Absolutely not. Barnes- Enoch that is- yes.”

Beast pauses, listening intently. 

“I’m quite alright. Yes, I know, I’m fine, just tired. No, please just check on the boys. I’m in good hands, I assure you- no need to fetch me. I’m fine. I’ll be back in town within the week. Lorna, I can take care of myself.” Beast pauses as if regretting the words. “Point taken,” He retorts, and Enoch has to stifle a chuckle.

Enoch listens to the Beast reassure Lorna for several more minutes, tension seeping away from his shoulders as his fingers drum languid melodies against the steering wheel, listening to one side of the conversation.

He's tired and has to blink his eyes open, pain searing through his arm as the adrenaline coursing through his veins begins to fade.

“Yes. Very Well. I shall see you soon enough.” Beast says and nods before hanging up the phone and slumping back into his seat, looking as tired as Enoch feels.

“So,” Enoch says after a beat of silence. “How is Lorna?” 

“Fine, perfectly alright, and ready to have my head.” 

“That doesn’t sound like Lorna.” Enoch intones as he turns down a side road.

“She’s a mother hen,” Beast says in lieu of justifying his former statement. 

“I think she has a right to be, sugar.” 

After a moment, Beast asks:

“How is Clara?” 

“Pissed at me,” Enoch says with a smile tugging at his lips. “As you may have noticed, I did not exactly come… prepared.”

Beast chuckles, unimpressed.

"Shall I call her?" He asks, and Enoch winces. After a moment, he relents. 

"Yes. I'm busy driving. Will you call her and put her on speaker?" 

Beast responds by futzing around with Enoch's phone until the dial begins.

Clara picks up on the first ring. 

"Enoch, are you alright? Where are you? I'll send help right away. You know you shouldn't have done that! Now we'll have to come up with another way to fetch Beast considering how much more watchful they'll be-" Clara's voice teeters between anger and concern. 

"I'm quite alright, Miss Clara," Beast speaks up, and Enoch visibly relaxes. 

"Mr. Edel!!! Oh, I'm so glad you're ok! Is Enoch there?" Clara's voice melts into relief and hospitality.

"Yes, ma'am." Beast purrs. 

"Would you be a dear and put him on for me? I would like to have a word with him."

"He's driving currently. You're on speaker." Beast says, and Miss Clara takes a steadying breath. 

"Enoch," She says, at last, her voice tense. 

"How may I help you, Miss Clara," 

"Are you alright?" 

"I'm perfectly fine-" Enoch assures

"He was shot," Beast interjects.

"Pardon me!" Clara cries, and Enoch sinks down further in his seat, sending Beast a glare met by a wicked smile. 

"I was grazed, nothing serious-" 

"Enoch," Clara says sternly, and Enoch claps his mouth shut. 

Clara's lecture takes up most of the rest of the drive as she scolds Enoch and declares how happy she is that they're both alright. It takes nearly an hour of reassurances from the two of them combined to coax her into enough of a sense of comfort that they would be alright. 

Eventually, she says goodbye and hangs up, and they lapse into a weary silence. The world ripples and blends beyond the glass of the windows, shadows growing long and leaving purple bruises smeared across the ground. The sun slinks lower in the sky, a fiery orange painting the endless stretching road in gold. 

Fields yield to forest, thick trees creeping inward, branches twisting overhead and cutting through the warmth of the sunset. 

“I know it was you.” Beast’s voice has regained a bit of its edge, though it still sounds as if talking pains him.

“Pardon, dear?” Enoch says, turning slowly down a dirt road, the greenery pressing in on both sides like fingers reaching to snare along the windows of the car. 

“The painter.” Beast elaborates. “I know you hired me.” 

“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” Enoch says calmly, eyes on the road.

“You’re not as subtle as you’d like to think, Enoch.” Formalities dropped Enoch turns to shoot Beast a crooked grin. The man is leaning against his window, brows tilted upwards. “And forged wedding papers are, in fact, very easy to find considering they are public record.” 

“They’re not forged,” Enoch corrects. “Your signature is, of course, but the documents are real.”

“And the notary who officiated it?” 

“Clara,” Enoch purrs, then after a beat, asks. “When did you figure it out, Sapling?” 

“When you were foolish enough to charge it all to your own card.” Enoch can  _ hear _ Beast rolling his eyes and has to suppress his delighted hum.

There’s something to be said there, something about privacy and bank statements. 

“You haven’t filed for divorce.” He says instead. 

Beast feigns offense. 

“Why on earth would I do that? My husband is  _ nothing _ but the picture of a perfect husband. In fact, I’m shocked you would suggest such a thing, same on you, Barnes.” 

Enoch laughs low and full. 

Then his humor dissipates at once as realization clutches at his heart. 

"Oh, hell." He mutters. "If I hadn't done any of this, you wouldn't have been put in this mess in the first place." 

"How dare you," Beast mutters. "Marriage is a two-way street. I'll have you know I agreed to this." 

Enoch fights a smile. 

"If I recall correctly, you most certainly did not-" 

"Are you saying that my signature isn't on our wedding papers, Enoch? I'm reasonably sure it is, and if I didn't sign it, who did? Foraging signatures is quite the crime-" 

Enoch grins crookedly at that. 

"Besides," Beast remarks. "Consider it payback for the two times the Dutchess tried to have you killed for knowing me." 

They're a giggling mess as the car draws to a stop, rumbling, falling asleep.

The building is almost unnoticeable tucked in the brush. A cabin, slightly too well kept to be considered ramshackle but far from a building you might expect to find people living in. Enoch honestly couldn’t give a damn. His entire body is beginning to ache as if he is a string wound too tight, right upon the verge of snapping, and the shards of glass in his arm are beginning to make pain bloom in the most particular of patterns, not to mention the bullet wound. Exhaustion slowly seeps through him and makes his limbs feel like lead.

Beast doesn’t look much better off.

Beast groans tiredly as Enoch leads him into the little cabin. It had been a safe house at one point; Enoch was lucky he even remembered where the key was. It had been so long since he operated in this part of the world.

Beast moves to pinch the bridge of his nose and draws back with his hand stained by crimson. He frowns. 

“We’re going to need to get you new glasses, darling,” Enoch says as he fishes his handkerchief out of his pocket for Beast to use to wipe away the blood still crusted on his face. “Those are fractured beyond repair,” 

“I’m a touch more concerned about cleaning up,” Beast says dubiously, wiping copper from his face, nose wrinkling with disgust. “Does this facility have a shower?” 

“Indeed it does, Sugar,” Enoch drawls. Beast offers Enoch’s bloody handkerchief back to him.

“Excellent, after I wash up, I’ll see to your wounds. See what you can do about the glass. I’ll assist you with anything you cannot extract after I am no longer filthy.”

One of Beast’s hands glints with silver, and Enoch grins. 

“Of course, dear, all though, I’m certainly not the only one who got hurt. Could I perhaps take you to a hospital, sweetheart?” He asks. 

“Not on your life,” Beast responds, curtness melting out of his voice, teasing positively seeping into his posture. “And you simply must be careful with such flirting. I’m a married man, after all.” 

Beast taps the ring, brows cresting high. 

“What a coincidence.” Enoch purrs, catching that hand in his own so that he may better press a kiss against it. Their rings clack together in the hush of the room. “So am I.”


End file.
